


Adventures of a Little Aviator

by TheVulpineHero1



Category: Flying Red Barrel (Video Game), One Hundred Percent Orange Juice
Genre: Cross-Post, Fernet would date both of them tbh, Loose Continuity, Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVulpineHero1/pseuds/TheVulpineHero1
Summary: After Marc destroys the Guild that wanted to take possession of the skies, there's still plenty of work to be done. Slice of life stories featuring the Flying Red Barrel cast.





	1. Flowers and the Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Similarly to my other blogspot cross-posts, I've excised the author's note's from these stories, and will resume posting them once we reach the present day. I don't have that many FRB stories already done, so that'll come quickly.

She has oil on her hands, in her hair, and in her blood. Her fingertips are tough and blunt, her knuckles always scuffed; sometimes, the ladies of the town mock her for having a workman’s hands. But they have never flown, as she has; no inch of metal has saved them from certain death, and they have never felt the terror of a bolt shearing off in the middle of the sky. The time she spends in the workshop is important, a mark of respect for her own life and her machine. It gives her the time she needs to contemplate both, and know them better: to listen to the heart of Red Barrel. If her hands lack grace, then so be it; they are graceful enough in the cockpit, and that is all she needs.

Perhaps she has chosen an odd day to linger in the workshop. The smell of fresh spring rain is giving way to the warmth of summer; some farms are already scattered with bales of straw and hay, and from above they look like a patchwork quilt of many colours. The sky is powder blue, the clouds few and fair. It’s her favourite type of day to fly, or even just to wander along the bumpy streets of the town and chat amiably to the familiar faces she finds. But instead she is underneath the belly of her plane, sweating in the midday heat.

She sighs, and sets her wrench aside to reach for one smaller. By the light of her torch, she can see a wedge of dull, burnt metal taunting her from the innards of her machine – probably a chunk of shrapnel left from some battle or another. It must have entered the plane from somewhere higher and fallen down, because there is a wave of pipes and wires cradling it. It all has to be disconnected, or worked around – a laborious job, but it will at least rid of of the worrying rattle that she’s been hearing. She prefers working on the fuselage, because it gives her an excuse to break out the welder’s torch. There is something entrancing in the sparks.

She works slowly and methodically. _This_ pipe must be taken so _that_ pipe must be drained, _these_ wires disconnected but _that_ bundle she can brush aside. Before long the ache has set into her shoulders, to be ignored until the job is done and then lamented later. Gradually, she makes her way into the belly of her machine, sipping from time to time on a cup of water that has grown warm on the workshop floor. The first draught of cold water after finishing a job is the sweetest taste she knows, but it will be a while coming.

Before long her mind contracts, sinking into that strange focus that artists share. Her hands know their business, guided by hours upon hours of practice; her mind is free to dream, to wander across libraries of pipe and screw and bolt, to picture the Red Barrel not as it is but as it might be. How will she improve it next? What face will it wear?

She doesn’t hear him come in. He is shod in supple leather, without the hobnails favoured by the other working men; his step is light, as befits a pilot. There is a saying that they who live in the sky should not tread too heavily upon the earth, or they risk being bound there. Superstition is a fine joke to a merchant or a guildmaster, but for pilots and sailors alike it is law; there is enough danger in taking to the sky and the sea without ceding one’s luck.

She only realises she is not alone when she reaches for her cup and realises the water is newly cold. Her fingertips linger on the side of the mug, and she takes a steadying breath before wheeling herself out from beneath the plane. She finds him sitting on an overturned crate in all his finery, smiling his cocky little smile.

“Every time I see you this plane seems to need touching up. Maybe the machine is reliable, but the pilot needs some work. Eh, Red Barrel?”

She smiles back, because she knows by now that the taunting is an act, and that even if it isn’t, he’s polite enough in other ways. He brought her a mug of clean, fresh water, after all, and stayed quiet to watch her work – smart enough not to speak, because mechanics surprised by sudden noises underneath a plane tend to end up with sore heads.

“Maybe so. I need to get her fixed up so I can get some practice in,” she replies, and puts her wrench aside. The corners of her mouth twitch in amusement. “But boy… I’m not sayin’ you don’t look good in that jacket, Blue Crow, but it makes me sweat just to look at you.”

He shuffles uncomfortably, and she knows she’s hit the mark. A cravat and jacket do not the airiest of summer ensembles make; even she has been edging quietly towards light linen shirts when outside of the plane and the workshop.

“It’s a necessary sacrifice. You have to look your best when you meet with your rival. That’s common sense,” he says loftily, although if he’s honest he wishes he had drawn a cup of water at the stop-pipe for himself. “Speaking of, you look like you’ve been soaking in an oil drum.”

“Aw, it’s not that bad. ‘Sides, I think a pilot can do with being slippery every once in a while. Might help me squeeze through enemy fire. Maybe that’s why I get shot down less than you do.”

“That’s got nothing to do with anything. I only get shot down by you, you know. For somebody who just ‘wants to fly freely’, you sure do pack on the firepower…” he grumbles.

She gulps down the remainder of her water, savouring the taste; it’s almost cold enough to make her teeth ache. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure? You just feeling lonesome?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sniffs, scowling at his boots. “I’m just making sure you’re not slacking off. Iron sharpens iron, right? I have to make sure my rival isn’t sitting around town, simpering over some blacksmith because he gave her a bunch of tulips or something.”

“That’s… sweet, I think?” she replies, sitting back down on her trolley. “Anyway, I’m gonna be awhile fixing up the plane. If you’re sticking around, I’d be grateful for another cup of water. If not, been nice seeing you.”

“Tch. Are you joking? If I leave a slowpoke like you to do this without any help, you’ll be here until next week. You call out the tools, and I’ll pass them. Surprised you can even find anything in this messy workshop.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. Under her machine, he can’t see her smiling. “You want to grab me the ratchet wrench? In the big old steel draw, on the left.”

They settle down to the task. The work doesn’t go much faster for having Peat there; his pride won’t let him look at the inner workings of his rival’s machine, and she’s not so keen showing him herself. Some things have to stay between a pilot and her plane. But at least there’s some banter, and stories to tell of glowing triumphs and near misses; the afternoon wicks away into the evening before they are done.

“I guess that wasn’t so bad,” he says, tightening his scarf outside the workshop. She can see the Blue Crow in the distance, settled in a patchwork field. “You’d make a better mechanic than you would a pilot.”

“Funny. I was thinking maybe I’d hire you for an assistant, since then at least you’d be doing something you’re good at,” she volleys back cheerfully. “Besides crash landing, that is.”

“Oh? You’ll get some practice at crash landings tomorrow. I’ll put a nice, big hole in your plane for you to repair. You’d better be ready, Red Barrel!”

His tone is friendlier than his talk, and she waves him goodbye amiably as he strides across the fields. She wipes her forehead with a rag, and it comes back black with grease: a bath is most definitely in order, and then the day will be as good as done. (She sleeps early and rises early, to make the most of the day’s light for flying).

It is not until she locks up the workshop, ready for bed, that she finds the flowers he left on the workbench: a bouquet of carnations, red for a rival’s admiration. Or perhaps just to match her plane? She whistles to herself; she’ll have to remember to buy a vase tomorrow. She’s not the type of girl to get flowers often.

But then, she’s not the type for simpering, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that @Zakurossu did a short comic based on this story! You can find the thread [here](https://twitter.com/Zakurossu/status/1000804452599660545).


	2. Over the Barrel

The problem with living in the country is that the country very often wants to come home with you, usually in the guise of a thick coating of mud on your shoes. It’s maddening for him. He cleans and shines his boots every morning, but if he puts one foot outside the Blue Crow he looks like he’s been mucking out a dairy farm from the ankle down. Appearance, he believes, is important. The little girls and boys of the town always tell stories about the pilots, and he’d much rather appear in them as a sharply-dressed skyfarer than your run-of-the-mill dishevelled airman.

(Actually, when the children of the town talk about him, they talk less about his dress sense and more about his preternatural talent for bailing out of a burning aircraft without loss of life or limb. He’s one of the few ex-Guild pilots to have attracted a sobriquet amongst them – the “Tenacious Blue Crow.”)

He sometimes thinks how convenient it would be to be able to fly without an aeroplane – not high, or fast, but to just hover a foot or so above the ground when the mood took him. It would be instrumental in making him hate cows less. Cows, quite apart from weighing half a tonne each and knowing how to use it when a pilot crash-lands in their pasture, produce cow pats, and cow pats produce hours of oiling, washing, and chiselling the muck from your favourite footwear. But such convenience would dilute the majesty of the flight, the excitement. There would never be anything quite as thrilling as taking to the skies and hearing the Blue Crow’s engine right next to him. Quite possibly nothing as loud, either.

He folds his arms, leans against a water butt by the barn and sighs heavily. It’s a perfectly cloudless summer day – the best of the best, as far as flying goes. Yet, here he is, waiting for his passenger to actually turn up. Speaking of the majesty of flight, it would probably be a lot more majestic if people would stop using him as a taxi. Bereft of anything else to occupy his time, he takes off his scarf – not before checking that nobody can see him, of course, since the scarf is really what ties together his whole ensemble – and uses it to polish his goggles.

After another fifteen minutes of fruitless sweating in the afternoon sun, the barn doors finally open and Marc stumbles out of them, yawning as she does. She has dry hay stuck in her strawberry blond hair, and one of her pigtails is trying very hard to escape its tie. She tries to fuss with it one-handed while her helmet dangles from the other.

“About time, Red Barrel!” he barks, marching up to her. “We’re going to be late for afternoon practice!”

“Huh? Aw, it’s just you, Peat.” She yawns again, and looks every inch a maiden who has just been roused from a happy nap. “Don’t get your breaches in a bunch. Sherry won’t mind.”

“That’s fine for _you_. _I’ve_ got to deal with Islay! What were you doing all morning, anyway? They told me you only had one job set up.”

“I did. Old man Whiskey wanted me to take a look at his hay baler. We both figured that if I could get a plane working, a hay baler shouldn’t be any big deal. I managed to get her ticking again well ahead of time, so I caught a nap in the hay loft. Not like I could do much else with Islay checking out my plane all morning.”

She takes a huge stretch, narrowly missing his nose with her helmet, and starts to pick the straw out of her hair. She’s wearing her green flight suit, which he hates. It always makes her look so thin, and delicate, and _boyish_ , and yet somehow it never fails to make him nervous. It’s too form-fitting, is what it is. A _real_ pilot should wear puffy trousers, so you couldn’t possibly imagine what their legs might look like underneath. And a nice, padded jacket, so you couldn’t tell how large their chest might or might not be. And a scarf, so you couldn’t see the nape of their neck when you’re stood behind them. Why did she insist on twin pigtails, anyway? Hair like that was just asking to be played with. As a man of discipline and honour, he had never quite succumbed to the temptation yet, but he was absolutely being tempted. It was intolerable.

“Tch. Sleeping in haylofts and keeping your fellow pilots waiting? What a fine example you set, Red Barrel. It’s a good thing there’s no Guild anymore, or they’d probably be looking to kick you out of it,” he seethes. He’s angry, for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely for fear of what he might find.

“What, you’ve never taken a nap in a hay loft? You ought to try it some time. It’s really relaxing – might help your attitude,” she says, although as she wakes up her tone is starting to get more fiery. “Why’d they send you to pick me up, anyway?”

“Because Islay doesn’t like me,” he grumbles, although that’s not true. He doesn’t know if Islay is capable of liking or disliking anything. She’s so cool and reserved. So technical. He doesn’t know if her plane is the machine or she is. He prefers to fly with more passion, which Islay says is all well and good, but she’d really rather he learn the textbook manoeuvres so he gets shot down less often doing it.

She shakes her head, although a wry smile has crept onto her face. “No, I meant: Why’d they send a guy with a single seater plane to carry two people? It’s gonna be a real tight fit.”

“We’ll just have to manage it,” he says brusquely, putting on his goggles.

“Suuuuure. So, are you sitting in my lap or am I sitting in yours?”

He chokes. “That’s inappropriate!”

“Inappropriate? One of us has got to be practical, and from the amount of time you spend polishing those boot buckles of yours, I’m guessing it isn’t going to be you,” she says, walking to the plane. “Here. There’s a little gap behind the pilot’s seat. I think I can just about squeeze my way in there.”

He sighs. “I guess we’re lucky that you’re so small where it counts, then.”

“Now who’s inappropriate?!” she replies hotly, and claps him on the side of the head with her helmet. “Quit your squawking, Blue Crow, or I’ll clip your wings in practice later!”

There’s a strange mix of emotions as he takes his place in the pilot seat. On one hand, she _did_ just hit him, and pretty hard at that. On the other hand, he really prefers it when she argues with him. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she sees him and just smiles, as if he’s made her day better by walking into it. Sometimes he remembers that she’s a girl his age who shares his interests, fears nothing and can still look beautiful with her hair full of straw. He doesn’t quite know how to deal with all that. Being rivals is simpler. Shoot or get shot – everything else is beside the point.

“To be fair, that clunky plane of yours doesn’t need any extra weight, so that makes your figure pretty much perfect,” he says as he starts the ignition. The engine growls pleasantly.

“You think you can bad-mouth the Red Barrel and smooth-talk me in the same sentence, huh? Why’s my figure any of your business, anyway? And why is the engine so loud? Do you never tune it or something?” she shouts.

“It’s not loud, it’s passionate!” he yells back. Okay, so it is a little loud, but that’s its charm point. The Blue Crow wouldn’t be the same without its roaring engine, just like the Red Barrel wouldn’t be the same without enough rockets to decimate a small country. It’s also a great excuse to ignore the parts of her question that he doesn’t want to answer. “Preparing for takeoff!”

The plane trundles across the field, gathering speed. Normally he’d want a bigger run-up than this one, but practising with Islay is doing him at least some good, and he manages to get airborne well in time. It isn’t long before the countryside beneath them is a patchwork quilt of fields, and they’re well on their way to the rendezvous spot.

“Hey, Blue Crow! If you think I’m so skinny, why don’t you take me out to lunch?” she yells into his ear.

“Are you kidding?”

He can, over the roar of the engine and the whistle of the wind, almost hear her giggling. “Oh, I get it! Big mouth, small pocketbook. If you’re that hard up, I’ll pay for both of us!”

“What?! I can pay for my own meal!” he shouts. “Why are you so steamed about this whole thing? I already told you, I think you look perf-”

He realises what he’s about to say and bites his tongue – probably not fast enough.

“Who says I’m mad? Maybe I just really want to go out for lunch!” she says, probably not aware that a not-mad Marc who just wants to eat lunch with him is more terrifying on a social level than the firebrand who keeps hitting him with missiles. “Hey, we’re almost there! I’m surprised this thing can go this fast.”

“I’ll show you how fast it can go after training, Red Barrel! I haven’t forgotten the last time you shot me down!”

“We’ll see about that! Winner picks where we eat tomorrow, and the loser pays. I hope you brought your wallet!”

“You’re on!”

He begins the descent to where Sherry and Islay are waiting in their aircraft, with the Red Barrel settled a short way away. In the next few days, he will learn two very important things.

The first is that however much he’s learning with Islay, Marc has been learning even more under Sherry.

The second is how quickly Marc can pack away a sirloin steak.


	3. Peat and Greet

Unofficially, he doesn’t like Fernet. He doesn’t know too much about her other than the scuttlebutt from ex-Guild pilots, but he knows that she’s a big landowner with a big house and a big fleet of airships and she has a big mouth with a big smile on it that probably means a big headache in his immediate future. Officially, however, he has to be civil to her, because she’s Marc’s friend and Marc has more missiles than she has scruples.

“Oh, Marc! I’m _so happy_ for you!” Fernet says when they walk in.

He and Marc look at each other, which is a mistake. He’s been studiously avoiding looking at Marc all day, because apparently Fernet doesn’t let her visit if she’s not wearing a pretty dress. He has enough things that keep him awake at night without adding ‘Marc in a pretty dress’ to the list. But in the half-second of eye contact he makes before returning his gaze to his shoes, he manages to communicate the thought echoing in his heart: _She’s_ _ **your**_ _friend, so if this goes off the rails,_ _ **you’re**_ _dealing with her._

“You’ve finally decided to take my advice and get yourself a nice, strong manservant! Now, I know it feels strange at first, but give it a month and you’ll never go back, I promise you. It just makes life so much more convenient when you’ve got somebody you can trust to attend to things. You know, I knew you had it in you – I’ve always thought that underneath that country girl exterior, there was a sophisticated lady screaming to get out,” Fernet says. She enjoys talking, which is why it annoys her so much when people shoot her in the face before she’s done.

Marc’s eyebrows furrow. “Uh… You have the wrong idea. He’s not a servant.”

“Oh, don’t tell me!” Fernet gasps, putting a hand on the table to steady herself. The fine china rattles ominously. “He’s a _butler?_ My goodness, Marc! It’s an odd choice in uniform, but I can’t deny that he seems very well-kept. I _did_ think he looked too well put-together for a common servant. And so young, too! My, this is beyond even my expectations.”

Marc nudges him with her elbow and drops her voice to a low whisper. “Oh, she _likes_ you, Mr Fashionable. Do you want to be a butler for the day? I can clear it up with her later.”

“No way. It’ll only cause trouble. Besides, I won’t settle for being anything less than your equal, Red Barrel.”

“Fine, fine. I think it would have been fun, though,” Marc says, before turning her attention to the lady of the house. “He’s not my butler, either.”

Fernet takes a moment to mull this over. When she speaks, her voice is much more brusque. “Then why is he here?”

“Because he’s my _friend_ , and I wanted to introduce him to you. You’re always saying how you want to introduce me to high society, so why shouldn’t I do the same for my friends?”

Fernet pauses at this, and part of her is very pleased. Not only because Marc has accepted her as high society, of course, although that is a large factor, but because there is a wonderful sense of _noblesse oblige_ in the girl’s sentiment. She herself believes firmly in the idea that a lady with the means to be generous should use them, and that it was the duty of a noble not to look down upon her fellow man but to elevate them to her own level. But even so, there are matters of protocol. There always are.

“That is because you would make a lovely debutante, Marc,” she says, before looking meaningfully at Peat. “Debutantes are traditionally female.”

“So what? We can put him in a dress. He’s pretty enough.” She dodges the elbow Peat sends her way and continues. “Besides, nowadays it feels like I’m the only person who ever visits you, Fernet.”

“Well, that’s entirely besides the poi–”

“That’s _exactly_ the point. You never go out and socialise with people our age. You just go to fancy balls and talk to rich old people. You’ll end up a lonely old lady with lots of money and no friends, and I don’t want that to happen,” Marc says. “So, I’m introducing you. Peat, this is Fernet. She seems stuck up but she’s got a soft centre. Fernet, this is Peat. I shoot him down about three times a week and he doesn’t know when to shut up, but he’s one of the most passionate pilots I’ve ever met.”

There’s an awkward silence as Fernet juggles her priorities. She’s not used to be spoken to so directly, especially in her own home. She understands that it’s just the way Marc is, of course, but a woman’s home is her castle, the centre of her authority, and she’d be quite grateful if people would stop storming it.

“Well… I suppose I can allow it. He has the grooming of a noble, if nothing else. Take a seat, both of you, and I shall fetch us some tea,” she says, finally, before fleeing at what Peat supposes is her top speed.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Marc says when she’s gone, and takes a seat at the table. The chair is too big for her. The table is too big for anybody. If somebody at the other end asked you to pass the salt, you’d have to send a courier. “So what’s eating you? You’ve barely said a word since we got here.”

He takes a seat one space away from her. The temptation to lean back in his chair and put his feet on the table is absolutely gigantic, but he abstains. Every single place at the table has been set, he notices, which seems very strange and very desperate considering that Fernet doesn’t get visitors. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marc frown. “You sure? You usually have a lot more energy. If I’d called you a servant or a butler any other day, you’d have slugged me. Come to think of it, you’ve barely once looked in my direction. Did I annoy you or something?”

He scoffs. “You always annoy me.”

“No, this is something different. Do you have, like, a tummy ache, or – oh. _Oh._ _I_ get it.”

He doesn’t like the sound of that, and he especially doesn’t like it when she leans over and stares straight into his eyes. “You like Fernet, don’t you?”

There are so many undertones in her voice that he can’t possibly sort them out. Hope, excitement, accusation, maybe a little jealousy right at the very bottom. He turns his head, and grunts in annoyance when she immediately moves back into his view and stares him down again. Her eyes are wide-open; he can see how short her eyelashes are, and how there’s a little wetness at the corner of each eye.

“Don’t be stupid, Red Barrel!”

“No. It all makes sense,” she says, slowly, as if she’s piecing it together. “That’s why you didn’t fuss at her the way you fuss at me. I bet you’re being quiet because you’re all nervous. And you’ve been avoiding looking at me because there’s a prettier girl in the room, and you don’t want her to think you’re interested in me instead of her.”

He sighs, and tries to drag his eyes away again. But he can’t avoid looking at her, now. She’s wearing a dress in brilliant red, with a high neckline and a cinched waist, and a hem that flutters around the knee. Sleeveless, of course. It’s the first time he’s ever seen with bare shoulders, and he wishes that he hadn’t because he’s going to have trouble forgetting it. He hates how even she can look sophisticated and alluring if you just wrap her up in satin and lace.

“If I fuss at you, it’s because you’re worth fussing at. If I speak to you, it’s because you’re worth speaking to. To be honest, _your_ friend doesn’t interest me at all,” he says. He tries his best not to make it sound cruel, or acidic. “She seems nice enough, but she’s just a noble, stuck up here in a fancy house. She’s not like us.”

A long and volatile silence. He wonders where their host is with her promises of tea and polite chatter. That’s what nobles were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Take silence like this and fill them with chatter.

“I really can’t stand you sometimes,” Marc says, finally. Her voice is oddly calm, and he senses that this is not a good thing. “Of _course_ she’s not like us! Do you remember back when everything was going on with the Guild? We just went up into the sky and shot each other – sometimes for really stupid reasons, right? Don’t get me wrong – if we didn’t fight so much, we probably wouldn’t have been able to take down that huge castle when the time came. But my dream is a peaceful sky, where everybody can fly freely. Didn’t you say that was your dream, too? If it’s just people like us, who shoot before we talk, we’ll never make that dream last. We need people like Fernet, who sit down and chat about things over tea before they open fire. That’s what I like most about her. That she’s not like you and me.”

He groans and puts his head in his hands. First she’s accusing him of being besotted with a girl he only just met, and then she’s lecturing him because he’s not? He can’t win. He can never win against Red Barrel. She’s completely right – too many people like her and he’d hang himself. He looks up just as Fernet comes back into the room with a bone china teapot balanced on a silver tray.

“Finally!” he says bitterly, his tongue running away from him. “How long does it take to make a pot of tea? Did you get lost in your own mansion? If I’d have known you were going to leave me alone with Marc for so long, I’d have come with you as a chaperone!”

There is a long silence, in which Fernet does not move and the expression on her face remains that of the genial hostess. “I’m sorry. I’m not entirely that was what you wanted to say to me, Peat. I think you were looking for something more along the lines of, ‘thank you for the tea, as I’m quite thirsty’. Would you perhaps like to retract that and start again?”

“Do it,” Marc hisses.

“No. I meant exactly what I said,” he declares, and stares Fernet straight in the eye. “To be honest, you two have been driving me crazy all day.”

Fernet smiles sweetly, but ominously, and takes a long step towards the table. “My, my. Well, you certainly have a very good question. How long does it take to make a pot of tea, hm? You know, I’ve never thought about it, myself. Perhaps I’ll pour this one out onto your lap and make another, so I can time it properly. Marc, be a dear and hold your friend for me, would you?”

“Whoa, now,” Marc says, holding up her hands for peace. She sounds exhausted. “Can’t you just slap him instead? We don’t live in a big city, Fernet. Word has a way of getting around, and if I bring him home with burns on his, uh, fuselage, people are gonna start spreading rumours.”

“To be entirely honest, I think that’s rather an acceptable trade-off. I do love a good rumour, you see; they add much needed spice to social engagements. And it is simply unacceptable for him to talk like that to a lady in her own house and receive no comeuppance. Besides, Marc, if you don’t help me you shall be spreading the idea that have some special reason to want his… ahem, ‘fuselage’, intact. Now, do be a dear and seize him before he gets any ideas about running away.”

The idea of running away has been occurring to him intermittently throughout the entire day, but it’s never seemed quite so attractive as it does now. Fernet, he is very quickly realising, is tall. Tall means long legs, with which to glide effortlessly around the house as noblewomen do – the house that, upon further consideration, is like a many chambered labyrinth that she knows her way around and he doesn’t. Gliders, as he realised as a child, can move surprisingly fast.

“I thought you said she _wasn’t_ aggressive like us?” he hisses at Marc.

“I never said she wasn’t aggressive. Just that she’ll at least _negotiate_ with you first. We gotta have _something_ in common, or we wouldn’t be friends,” she replies, and claps a hand on his shoulder. It would be perhaps a little more reassuring if she didn’t have a grip like a vice. “Sorry, Blue Crow. If it makes you feel better, you did it to yourself.”

It does not, in fact, make him feel better at all. But he feels that, even though Marc is being leveraged against him, she’s trying very hard to drop him a clue – an escape route. He seizes upon it in the nick of time.

“That wasn’t _negotiating_ ,” he spits. Fernet slows to a halt, her teapot still held out like a handgun. “She just gave me a warning shot. Nobles are meant to be all about negotiations and contracts, right? They’re just puffed up merchants, after all. Why don’t you make me an offer?”

She puts a finger to her chin and thinks, or pretends to think. He doesn’t know which one is scarier. The hand holding her teapot is absolutely still, without so much as a shake or a tremble. Any pilot would kill for steady hands like that. Perhaps he’s been underestimating her. Just a little.

“An _offer_? Why ever would I do that? You have nothing that I care to barter for. I don’t know where you got this idea that nobles are like merchants, but it’s quite wrong. A noble, you see, does not give offers. She gives _commands_. Of course, if you’re so desperate to avoid your punishment, I might be able to scrounge up a task or two for you,” she says. There’s no vindictiveness in her voice. She sounds almost reasonable, which he is beginning to realise is her true ability: to talk nonsense with a straight face.

He grits his teeth, raises his gaze to stare her directly in the eye, and, against his better judgement, says a single word: “Shoot.”

“Do you remember, dear Peat, when our friend Marc told me that you weren’t her butler? I’m afraid that, as of right now, she was incorrect.” She puts down the pot of tea, and Marc releases her iron grip on his shoulder. Suddenly her voice is all business, her sentences on stiletto points. “You’ll find a cleanly pressed uniform hanging up the next room; put it on, quickly if you will, and then proceed down the hallway to the kitchen, where there is a tray of sweets for us. Oh, don’t give me that look – surely as a pilot you must deliver things from time to time? You may, if you wish, help yourself a slice of the tart. Also, as a servant, you should speak only when spoken to. Well? Get going. This pot of tea will remain hot for quite a while, and you shouldn’t push your luck until it’s cooled.”

She’s wearing the face of a woman who expects to be obeyed, and in that moment he realises that he doesn’t just not like Fernet, but he hates her. He hates her in the same way that he hates Marc, because the two of them are so far more alike than he was prepared to guess. Because they’re both deceptively strong underneath their feminine wiles. Because he wants to fight them, but he’s never quite sure if he wants to win. As he walks out of the room to get changed, he curses them both under his breath – but only barely.

They wait a few seconds for him to get out of earshot before Fernet bundles herself into the chair next to Marc’s and breaks down in a fit of giggles.

“You said it would work, but I really didn’t expect it to work that well! Oh, Marc, you always bring the best toys,” she says, and wipes a tear of mirth from her eye. “Did he really think I would chase him around my house with a teapot? And risk staining the carpet?”

“Don’t call him a toy. He just likes losing more than he thinks he does, or else he wouldn’t look for excuses to fight me so often,” Marc replies. She’s grinning too, although it’s a more subdued one. “I do feel kinda bad tricking him, though. I knew he’d mouth off eventually if I poked him, but I was sorta hoping he wouldn’t.”

“And miss the opportunity to be served tea and cake by a strapping young man in finely pressed trousers? You boggle the mind sometimes, Marc, you really do. Oh… I do like him, though. All the men I ever meet are so cowed by prestige. Perfectly spineless, as you might imagine. It’s so rare to see one with backbone.” She takes a deep breath, to replace all the air she spent laughing.

“And?” Marc asks, expectantly.

Fernet rolls her eyes. “ _And_ I’ll see if I can scrounge up a few jobs for him, as we agreed. I have some fine tea waiting for transportation in the next town over, and I could stand to have somebody fetch it for me.”

“Good. Don’t tell him I asked you to do it, though. He’ll hit the roof.”

“In that case, I might tell him just to watch the reaction.”

Fernet leans back in her chair, and assumes an air of satisfaction. Today has, thus far, been a very lovely day. It is, after all, the privilege of a lady to surround herself with fine sights, fine food, and fine company. And as Peat approaches in a white dress shirt, morning coat and (of course) some finely pressed trousers, a plate of scones held in his gloved hands, she knows that she has found all three.


	4. Roses

It shouldn’t be this hard.

He was a professional airman. He delivered cargo, flew through storms, fought off pirates. He wasn’t afraid of anything, although Islay had beaten a healthy respect for the forces of meteorology and mathematics into his head. There was no reason for him to hesitate.

But his body felt heavier than usual as he pulled on his boots and tied his scarf. His heart thudded as he put on his boots and his goggles. His stomach sank when he checked his cargo. He wondered whether it was just his head playing tricks on him, or if it was a portent of coming disaster; airmen were superstitious, and he was no different.

But, no matter how deep his misgivings ran, he had a job to do. And on the good name of the fledgling guild, and on his own as the Blue Crow, Peat had a job to do.

On the face of it, it was a simple job. A shipment had arrived at headquarters, and all he had to do was load it onto his plane, take it to the destination, and then await further instructions from the recipient.

But in the air, as in the sea, the devil was in the details. The destination was Marc’s workshop, the date of delivery was Valentine’s Day, and the cargo was box after box of bright red roses.

It was the world’s most obvious setup, and the only question was who had done it. There were a lot of candidates. He and Marc were the bright stars of a new generation of pilots; the world saw them together more often than it saw them apart, although mostly it saw them bickering. A girl and a boy in that kind of situation would always attract… speculation. Evidently, Marc didn’t see the point in discouraging it, and although he’d been more vocal at first, he’d eventually realised that he could only punch so many people in the face before it came back to bite him.

But even closer to home, there were people to be suspicious of. He didn’t _think_ it was the kind of thing Sherry would do, but nobody really seemed to understand what was going through her head most of the time. His current suspicion was that it was Islay, and she intended it as a test of his professionalism and his ability to put the work before his own feelings.

Or – and he hardly dared think it – it might even have been Marc herself. Maybe as some sort of prank, he thought. Or maybe – just maybe – she was hinting at something. The work order had been very specific, Islay said. The client had asked for him by name.

Whatever the case might be, he wasn’t getting any closer to the answer by sitting in the hanger. So he packed the roses into his cargo hold, box after box after box, even throwing out his missiles and machine gun bullets to make room, and he sat in the pilot’s seat as he had many times before. It was a clear, bright day as he taxi’d out into the runway, with only the barest smattering of clouds. Soon, he would rise above them.

And whatever the conspiracy was, and whoever had pranked him with these roses – he would rise above them, too.

* * *

 

“G’mornin’, Blue Crow. Why’re you making such a racket at – _huaaaaah_ – this time of day?”

Peat frowned down at her from the pilot’s seat. Not only had she broken off in the middle of her greeting for a long, indulgent yawn, but she had the bleary-eyed look of somebody who’d been pulling jobs into the wee hours of the morning again. She had straw in her hair, as usual. He hated that. It always made him want to pick it out, and he never could because it would be weird.

“Delivery,” he said, sharply. “You’ll have to sign.”

“Huh? Ah, yeah,” she replied, waving the concern away with as if it was a fly. “Come on inside. I just put on a pot of coffee.”

“The delivery–”

“It’ll sit.”

She turned and began to amble back to the kitchen, yawning all the way. With a long-suffering sigh, he swung himself out of the pilot’s seat and followed.

Although he’d been into Marc’s workshop a few times, it wasn’t often that he went into her house. Like most places in the area, it was an old farmhouse; the workshop that housed the famous Red Barrel used to be a barn, complete with a hayloft that he was convinced Marc slept in from time to time. The house itself was full of rugged timber, with floorboards that creaked just enough to be reassuring.

She shuffled through the hall – she’d come outside in her slippers, he noted with vague disapproval – and into the kitchen, which looked almost like a regular kitchen until you looked a little closer and saw an adjustable wrench lying with the knives and forks on the draining board. The whole place smelled like an odd mix of engine grease and suspiciously high-end coffee, the latter of which he was offered in a tiny cup. At first, he almost scoffed, but after throwing it back in one-and-a-half gulps, he did perhaps wish it had been a little tinier.

“Go easy on that stuff, or you’re gonna have the jitters all day,” she said placidly, sipping from a much bigger cup herself. “Don’t need your trigger finger any twitchier than it already is.”

“Like you’re one to talk, Red Barrel.”

As much as he hated to admit it, he was already feeling fidgety. His plan had been to drop off the roses and get out as quickly as possible, to minimise any possible discomfort. But here he was, still without a signature, watching Marc leisurely drink coffee. He didn’t have any other missions scheduled for the day, but she didn’t know that; it felt like she was intentionally taunting him. He tapped his fingers on the side of his empty cup irritably, and fought the urge to pace. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s the matter, Blue Crow? Don’t tell me the coffee already got to you.”

“No, but we’re wasting time,” he snapped.

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” she said, pointing him to a handsome grandfather clock that was well-maintained but in need of some polish. “You delivered them a half-hour ahead of time, so we can get some breakfast if you like.”

He pulled down his goggles and looked at her as if he were scouring the skies for enemy aircraft.

“It was you, wasn’t it? Who ordered those roses. Why? Did you do it to mess with me? Or–”

“Peat? You’re shouting. You, uh… you feeling alright? Have you been working too hard or something? I didn’t order the roses.” Her tone was still carefully pleasant, but it had lost the placidness it had before. There was a rising undertone of anger there, hiding below the surface – the fighting spirit that leapt to the fray whenever she sat in the cockpit.

“Don’t lie to me. The only people who knew about this job were Islay, and me. Confidentiality means nobody else saw the job order, and we both know what Islay’s like about that. So the only way – the _only_ way – you could know when that delivery was scheduled is if you ordered it yourself. So, what, Red Barrel? Were you just trying to play with my head? Or you just didn’t think anybody else would get you any flowers?”

He was aware, in his heart of hearts, that the last bit was unnecessary. He didn’t need to spit the words the way he had, and really, he was getting worked up over an entirely harmless prank. He became much more aware of it when, diplomatic as always, Marc stood up, leaned over the table and socked him square in the jaw.

“Watch your mouth, Blue Crow. I don’t care what’s going through your head, you’ve got no place speaking to me like that in my own home. After I gave you coffee, too!” At some point between his getting hit by her (surprisingly respectable) haymaker and him spiralling to the floor, her wrench had magically vanished from the draining board and reappeared in her hand. “I didn’t order the flowers, anyway, so I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about. If you were wondering, why didn’t you just look at the order?”

It occurred to him, as he looked at Marc’s kitchen ceiling, that there was a slim chance he was in the wrong, and a much greater chance that he would regret it if he didn’t immediately say so. Still, he had a small amount of pride, so he dragged himself off the floor, wiped his mouth, and did his best to look as though he hadn’t just been clobbered by a girl a head shorter than he was.

“Islay said the client requested to be kept anonymous,” he muttered.

“Can’t see why she’d do that,” Marc replied smartly. “Anybody with half a brain could figure out who ordered them.”

“Who?”

“Fernet, of course. You know how expensive roses are this time of year? Who else do you know with money to spend on a whole shipment of them?”

“So why’d she have them delivered to _you_?”

“Because she needs two planes for the second part of the job,” Marc said irritably, knocking back the rest of her coffee in one gulp. “And she didn’t give any instructions on that bit either, I guess.”

He shook his head silently, and Marc gave him a look that was honestly as angry as any she had given him so far. It said that she would be having _words_ with Fernet, that they would be fighting words, and that there might be actual fighting directly following them. _Not impressed_ was an understatement.

“It’s like a leaflet drop,” she explained, shoving him roughly out of the kitchen. “We’ve got to fly over the town, open the cargo hold, and drop the roses as we go over. Fernet came up with it herself – she said it’ll be like a publicity stunt to draw attention to our guild. That’s why she asked for me and you, specifically. We’ve got the most recognisable planes.”

“What about Sherry? Seems like the Rose Windmill would make the most sense for this kind of thing.”

“Good luck getting Sherry to do anything without throwing a loop-de-loop in. Now come on. Since _somebody’s_ too busy to sit down and enjoy breakfast, we might as well start loading my half of the roses.”

She all but marched him to the workshop, where they spent the next twenty minutes in an angry, uncomfortable silence, picking roses carefully out of the individual crates they’d been packed in and laying them one-by-one in the bomb bay. Marc put on her heavy workshop gloves for the task, and conspicuously declined to offer him a pair. He took off his piloting gloves (which were too soft for the job) and proceeded to tear his fingers apart on the thorns.

“Hey, Red Barrel?”

No response.

“I’m sorry for blowing up at you. I got in my own head.”

Still no response.

“What I said was low. …I appreciate the coffee.”

Perfect stillness.

“Yeah, well. I’m sorry for slugging you,” she said, after a long, long silence.

“No you’re not.”

“No, I’m not, because you deserved it. But I accept your apology anyway.”

He couldn’t exactly argue with that, although he wanted to. He got the feeling that he’d still be arguing with Marc in ten or twenty years’ time. He sighed, and continued to pack away the roses in the bomb bay of his plane. She was probably already done, damn her.

When they were done, they drove the planes out onto the rough-hewn runway outside the workshop, ready to take off. They had a little time before departure; they wanted as many people on the streets as possible, for the biggest impact.

“Oi, Red Barrel,” he said at last, and took a rose that he’d kept separate from his cargo. “Happy Valentine’s.”

She looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, perhaps considering whether she’d hit him too hard earlier and somehow damaged his brain. “Uh, Peat? You know I know where that rose came from, right?”

He thrust his free hand into his pocket. “Y-yeah. But I’m superstitious. If I said nobody would give you flowers and then nobody did, I’d feel like an ass. So here’s one to start you off. Fernet won’t miss it.”

“You really do just worry about the weirdest things, don’t you? Sorry, but you can keep it. I’ll take my chances. Try again next year if you like,” she said, and pulled on her goggles. “Just make sure not to fall out of the sky before then, Blue Crow.”

“Tch. Same to you, Red Barrel. I won’t bring you flowers if you end up in hospital.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“You’re not a lady.”

He retreated to his cockpit, to the comforting sound of an idling plane. It felt like they’d fallen back into their regular rhythm after the events of the morning, and maybe that was all he could ask for. He hoped that, maybe in a year, they would get along better – that the Peat he would become would be able to just spend a morning drinking coffee, without starting an argument over nothing.

He heard the Marc gunning the Red Barrel’s engine, and knew the time had come. Together – or close enough – they took to the skies.

That Valentine’s Day, people would remember the red and blue planes flying above them in the sky, dropping a cloud of roses like a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was scribbled down quickly for Valentine's. By the way, we're already back to the present day! Author's notes will resume in any future chapters.


End file.
